Transhumanist Wager, The (24 page)

When she realized this, she became
furious. Impetuously, Zoe grabbed her cell phone and began a curt message to
Jethro’s personal email address. Screw a handwritten letter, she thought. If he
doesn’t answer or want to help me, then let him be damned. She typed rapidly:

Jethro,

I received a
stolen email from a friend, warning of an imminent Redeem Church terror attack
on me, my colleagues, and my workplace, Cryotask. The attack is scheduled for
dawn on October 1st. I was hoping you could help me figure out what to do.

Zoe

She didn’t proofread. Didn't edit.
She just pressed “Send.” The message disappeared into the void. Zoe waited,
staring at the inbox on her phone like a heartbroken fourth-grade schoolgirl,
she thought crossly. She wasn’t sure if he would get back to her in an hour, a
day—or a lifetime.

She was still looking at her cell
phone screen two minutes later, lost in her memories of them together in
Kashmir, when her phone beeped twice. The text from Jethro read:

Getting into
car now. You in your apartment, Cryotask, or SF General? I’m about a 55-minute
drive from you, with traffic.

Jethro

She beamed before her consciousness
even registered it all.

He knew everything. Where she
lived. Where she worked. Her new cell number—always deemed private. Everything.

Slowly, she gravitated to the
obvious. The whole time he was really with her. In love with her. Watching her.
Waiting. And probably goddamn battling himself, she thought. 

Regardless, now she was going to
face him. In less than an hour. It was that simple.

She texted back:

In my apartment, waiting.

Zoe thought she should get ready.
Take a shower. Put on a dress. Clean the apartment. But she didn’t move. She
didn’t want to alter her position even one inch. She just wanted to savor the
sublime moment. Savor what it felt like to have someone totally aware of her,
of her full existence, of her capacities, of her essence. Of the mysterious
uniqueness. And to bear the weighty emotion she had carried for the years since
she last kissed him, last held him, last made love to him.

Fifty-three minutes later, Jethro
arrived at her skyscraper's entrance. The security guard rang Zoe, and in a
skeptical voice, said, “There's a man down here, calling himself Jethro
Knights, to see you, Dr. Bach.”

Jethro knew by the guard's voice
that a man hadn't been up in that apartment for months—maybe never.

“Yes, yes, Al. He's okay,” she said
in exasperation. “Please send him up.”

Two minutes later, Jethro knocked
and she opened the door.

He stood there—uplifted and
grateful to be alive—watching her. Zoe stared back, her mind reeling. Her eyes
frozen on him. He walked in and took her gently by the arm.

“How about sitting over there by
that window?”

He led her to a small couch. She
was certain his hand was floating her across the room. Surely she didn’t have
the strength to walk, she thought. He sat down and brought her onto his lap,
holding her tightly in his arms.

Zoe thought she should say
something and finally mumbled, “Was the traffic bad? It usually is around this
time in the afternoon.”

“Shhh. It doesn’t matter now.”

Afterward, the first tears started
streaming down her face. Then a cascade. He held her for twenty minutes in
silence, his own body tense and slightly shaking.

Finally, numbly, she said, “Do you
want to hear about the attack?”

“No,” he said, lifting her up and
walking towards the hallway. “I want to know which way it is to your bedroom.”

She almost jumped out of his arms.
That was just too much. Way beyond anything that she had considered. She burst
out laughing and said, “Are you kidding me? You want me to just let go? Let go
of it all? Right now? Of what you did? And why you did it? And what it did to
me these past two and a half years?”

Jethro simply answered, “Yes. That
would be best.”

“But everything you believed.
Everything you fought in us—fought in yourself. That doesn't go away for you.”

He twisted slightly. “No, not away.
But to a place where it’s quiet now. Very quiet. Perhaps even peaceful—in a
Zenlike way you might appreciate.”

She did. Zoe sniffled and nudged
her head towards the bedroom down the hall.

************

The next morning Zoe Bach walked
out in her white bathrobe and found Jethro Knights naked in front of the
window, typing on his laptop. She flashed back to her mud hut in Kundara and
thought, same Jethro.

He heard her footsteps. Turning
around, he asked, “Can I get you some coffee? It's still warm.”

She nodded yes.

“What are you working on?”

“My man opening the Beijing office
needs more instruction than I care to give. But, at least, he's finally locked
in the lease.”

She nodded, impressed. “I've never
been to Beijing. Sounds exciting.”

“Really? Want to go? I need someone
to help me with the decorating.”

He brought her a cup of coffee and
gave it to her with a light kiss on the cheek.

“I have offices going up on four
continents, but don’t have any sense of interior design that doesn't scare away
people—at least, according to my staff.”

She laughed, and joked that she
might consider the job.

They relished the morning
together—in and out of bed. She called in sick for the first time in her life.
After an intimate lunch near Union Square, Jethro said, “I have some meetings
down south this afternoon. Will you let me make you dinner in Palo Alto? My
apartment looks like the Line of Control in Kashmir, but my spaghetti has
improved.”

After sharing a bottle of wine and
enjoying dinner together, they lay naked, embracing amongst a roomful of
computers, maps, and paperwork, which sprawled like the Banyan trees at
Cambodia’s Angkor Watt. Candles burned atop hundreds of stacked books. The
flames flickered, casting dancing shadows over the countless transhumanism
articles and graphs pinned on the walls. Jethro pulled Zoe closer and
whispered, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I haven’t reconciled anything.
Everything is still at odds. But I can accept it now and still pursue my
transhuman dreams. I hope you understand that.”

Zoe was pensive. What could she
say, she thought? Her philosophy on life—easier imagined than lived—was
acceptance and harmony. She had no choice but to unify it all in herself. She
whispered back, “Okay, my love. Okay.”

The next morning, Zoe awoke to
Jethro working at his computer again. She could see that he was serious and
tense. Later, after breakfast, he announced, “Zoe, I want to do something on
October 1st at Cryotask that is going to be very risky. I’ll need your help to pull
it off. I'll do my best to protect you, the other employees, and the business,
but nothing is definite. The building may be destroyed if something goes awry;
however, if we can catch these criminals in the middle of their terrorist act,
anti-transhumanist groups like Redeem Church are going to get a wake-up call
they will never forget—a very public bareknuckled fist through the teeth.
Millions across the nation will hear about it if my plan goes correctly. And
it’ll be the formal launching of Transhuman Citizen to the world. I might be
hurt—and I’ll likely go to jail—but I need to know I can count on you.”

“Jail? I just got you back,” she
said, moaning.

“Not for too long a time, I hope.”

“What does that mean? Days, months,
or years?”

“I'm not sure. Less than years, I
think.”

She considered it, understanding
his mind was already decided.

Finally, she offered quietly,
reluctantly, “Okay, Jethro. I'll help you.”

Chapter 16

Despite Reverend Belinas’ pull, it
remained an intensely close race between Gregory Michaelson and Andy Johnson in
the election for New York State Senator. In the early hours of the morning, as
the last counties finished counting their votes, Gregory was declared the
winner by a single percentage point. It provided a superb story for the media.
They focused on one of the strongest comebacks in decades for a candidate who,
only weeks before, was significantly behind in the polls. The
USA Daily
Tribune
reported that, out of nowhere, unheard-of constituents in rural
counties voted in record numbers. Usually apathetic, the poverty-stricken
populace asserted itself and pushed Gregory Michaelson to a relished victory.

Preston Langmore and other leading
transhumanists were crestfallen. They were counting on Johnson to try to talk
some sense into the rest of Congress. He was one of their only government-based
allies. Once Belinas got involved, however, the opportunities fell apart. Now,
one of the most powerful, wealthiest states was led by an anti-transhumanist.
It was another loss for the transhuman movement, at a time when it could hardly
withstand any more losses. 

Gregory's first days in office were
a whirlwind. As such a young handsome senator, he was a constant feature on
numerous media outlets. News anchors congratulated him. Radio hosts interviewed
him. Papers and Internet sites ran his picture on their front pages. Many
people remarked that a few productive and mistake-free years in Congress would
put him on the platform to the presidency. Everything was going his way.
Amanda, dolled up in mink furs, played the glamorous, smiling wife. Fashion and
social magazines raced to tell their love gossip and print their pictures. The
Michaelsons were a sensation.

On a trip to Washington, D.C.,
Reverend Belinas met Gregory in the halls of the Capitol building. In front of
numerous important politicians, Belinas flamboyantly greeted him, congratulating
and embracing him as if he were a close, longtime friend. Gregory was
thrilled—and more devoted than ever.

Belinas promised to meet with him
soon, directly after a food drive in the slums of El Salvador. A week later,
the reverend’s secretary contacted Gregory, and a date was set for dinner at
the Michaelsons’ mansion. Belinas arrived in his white Range Rover, bowing low
when he met Amanda for the first time. She was dressed in New York high
fashion; a lacy aqua-blue dress draped across her body and revealed enticing
views of her bare back. Belinas eyed her carefully, dangerously.

Dinner was exquisite:
Chardonnay-basted duck with cardamom grass shoots. Desert was Li Fu-Plea, a
specialty of the Michaelsons’ Parisian live-in chef. Later, in the library,
Belinas and Gregory smoked cigars together in private.

“Next week,” the reverend said,
“we're beginning to formalize that new U.S. agency. I want you to head it as we
discussed. The President himself will make all the announcements when the time
is right.”

“Sounds fine,” Gregory answered,
sleepy from too much wine. “By the way, what is your role in the new agency?”

“Essential but unofficial. The
President has asked that I write the directives of the new agency, and remain
as the senior-most advisor. I'll monitor and guide the financing as well. We're
going to have special funding.”

“Oh yeah? How much?” Gregory asked,
almost bored.

“For starters, a hundred billion
dollars.”

Gregory choked on his cigar,
coughing like an amateur smoker.

“A hundred billion dollars,” he
shouted, glee in his voice. “That's almost the same as the CIA, isn’t it?”

Belinas lowered his head
condescendingly, thinking Gregory far too predictable—and not dissimilar from
putty.

“Senator Michaelson, the agency I
have asked the President to form is of the utmost gravity and vital for the
safety of this country. I have handpicked you for it. I still don't think you
understand how dangerous I view transhumanism to be. It could tear our nation
apart. It could alter how we view ourselves as a society of human beings. I
need to know that you understand how significant this is; that the President
and I can count on you. And that you have the strength to lead us, to help
build an agency from the ground up, that will become as powerful as any other
in the United States. We absolutely must win the war against the
transhumanists.”

“I apologize, Reverend,” Gregory
said, regaining his composure. “Just, that's a lot of money. Like in the old
days before the economic fallout. It shocked me. And, of course, you can count
on me. I fully agree with stopping those people from creating monsters out of
the human race and harming our American way of life.”

“That's good to hear, Gregory,”
Belinas replied, “because your job will not be for the lighthearted. Ruthless
moral strength is required. We may eventually have to use force. We may have to
use violence. So far, extreme measures have worked very effectively to accomplish
our goals.”

“What do you mean
extreme
measures?” Gregory asked cautiously. 

“There are things happening right
now in our country, in our cities. Underground stuff. Nothing you need to know
about yet, but it has been effective. And we plan to continue being effective,”
Belinas said firmly, hinting at the latest attacks on transhumanists being
showcased across the media.

“We will not be dissimilar from the
CIA, Gregory—in the public's eye, and out of it. There will be secrets. There
will be spies. There will be covert programs and clandestine operations. We
must win at any cost. Do you understand? At. Any. Cost. The security of America
and the human race are counting on us. God is counting on us.”

Gregory nodded, acknowledging what
he meant. He had little choice but to agree with the man who had done so much
for him. 

“Yes, Reverend. I understand and I
won’t let you down.”